


and many more

by hapful



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7221181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapful/pseuds/hapful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers mid month, yeah, sitting at the table with Ford at his side, their mother baking them a cake with one layer Stan's favorite and one layer Ford's. Every year they butted their shoulders against each other, waiting for the last beat of their mother singing them a happy birthday to try and blow the candles out first.</p><p>Stan <i>always</i> won, even when Ford insisted there was no real way to tell. They'd argue and laugh over it until their father barked at them to keep it down and they stuffed cake in their mouths to smother the laughter still forming in their throats.</p><p> </p><p>the stans and their birthday</p>
            </blockquote>





	and many more

They’ll spend winters back home, back in the Shack, that’s what they decide one night when Stan’s feeling antsy. The whole thing goes a little like:

“Hey, what about winter, Pointdexter?” There's a beer in Stan's hand, a laziness curling up his fingers and joints, leaving him warm and languid.

On the flipside Ford's muscles seem to be perpetually moving in some ying/yang bullshit they can never manage to escape. Even now his fingers twitch over papers, his eyes dart over Stan then back down again. “Huh? Oh, just a minute, I almost have these calculations down.“

“Oh sure, don’t mind me, I’ll just stand here while you forget I exist again and— you already have, haven’t you?” Stan waits a beat.

Then another.

"Stanford."

Ford's voice is a hum. “Hm?”

That’s the part when Stanley sighs, right on cue, then steals Ford’s pen. The irritation that blooms on Ford’s face is hilarious and painfully nostalgic, like watching the teenager Stan remembered him best as uncurl from the bitter folds of Ford’s chest. Even now, even months later, they were still relearning each other, trying to remember the pieces they both forgot.

So the whole thing, it continues like:

“Stanley, give that back!” Ford is heated, perpetually moving and tense energy.

Stan slinks back, away from his grasp, fluid. “Sure, when you answer my question. What about winter?”

“Winter?” Ford’s irritation melts more quickly than it would have when they were teenagers. When they were teenagers Ford could hold a good sulk for hours, maybe all evening if Stan really got under his skin.

This Ford, well, his indignation and irritation tended to crack under long silences and the guilty slope of his shoulders, tended to bleed out as he stared at Stan for a beat that said he was remembering a lot of nasty things, like how empty he said Stan’s eyes were after the memory gun. 

(Like how glassy they could get for weeks after, Ford admitted to him only once. Like the world ending, those days Stanley didn’t quite remember. Like ruin and the pieces it left behind.)

At first Stan liked it, the lack of confrontation, the almost gentle care. Now though, he kind of hated it actually. Maybe he didn’t want to be glass that needed careful handling anymore, or maybe he didn’t like his stubborn brother punishing himself indefinitely for a lot of nonsense he sure as shit didn’t deserve, or maybe, hell, maybe Stan was just a bitter, cranky old man who liked a good fight sometimes. Maybe he wanted the familiar, bittersweet nostalgia over this new way of theirs.

(Maybe he didn't like change. Maybe he didn't like things he didn't want to understand more than things he simply couldn't.)

“Y’know, snow, holidays, freezing to death out on the ocean.” Stan twirls the pen with less precision than Ford could, hardly clumsy but blunt, lacking grace.

Ford tries once more to snatch it back, and Stan lets him. “You’re worried about our chances of survival? Honestly, Stanley, I think I know enough about surviving in extreme climates to make sure we’re prepared.”

“I ain’t talking about survival, I’m talking about _comfort._ I’m an old man, Stanford. My joints need a break from Arctic air and sea monster morning breath.”

The silence that follows chases a doubtful look along Ford’s face- old, familiar, nostalgic. It reminds Stan of hooking his arm around his brother’s shoulders, of encouragement, of the little pushes to smother the nerves out of Ford’s head before they took root.

He guesses at the nerves, pushes naturally, like riding a damn bike still. “Don’t give me that look, I’m not saying I want to pack up and call the adventuring quits, I’m saying maybe we set aside a month or two in the winter and rest our old, decrepit bones back home. Hell, the kids will have break around that time, we can even see them.”

“Oh.” Just as he thought the mention of Dipper and Mabel is enough to crack through whatever doubts or reservations were rattling around Ford’s head. “I suppose you do have a point, we will need to touch base and doing so with regularity would probably be for the best.”

“‘Course it will be, I’ve only got good ideas— don’t look at me like that either. Besides, December’s important.”

The way Ford stares at him is familiar, a new familiar he was picking up on. It was that look he got when he didn’t understand but didn’t want to ask, prove his disconnect from his home dimension, stubbornly frustrated himself into a circle to figure it out.

“Of course.” Ford glances to the sea beyond them, already dismissing the hiccup of information in his head with a suitable answer. “The holidays.”

He didn’t remember.

Stan swallows at a lump in his throat and nods.

 

——

 

So there's Fiddleford, sprawled out on his lumpy, college-supplied bed as he gestures to their resident tower of books to say, “When’s your birthday anyways?”

Fiddleford gave up craning his head to see Ford from behind the perpetual stacks of books in their room a few months into their new housing arrangement. He claimed it was because he learned, Stanford, that there was about as much use talkin’ to a mountain of books as there was trying to hold a conversation with Stanford Pines when he was working up a storm. Given Stanford was always working up a storm, Fiddleford concluded with a grandiose and long suffering wave of his hand, he would just have to get used to having nice chats with the frankly frightening pile of books that towered over them. Really, who needed things like human company anyway? Not him. He was doing great with inanimate objects for roommates.

Ford didn’t bother to humor him at the time with more than a noncommittal grunt, neck deep in a thesis he already resolved to get done by the next day. At the very least he had the decency not to bat an eye when Fiddleford started naming the book stacks with a bitingly sincere sort of sarcasm.

So sure, maybe it wasn’t much of a surprise to either of them when the silence after Fiddleford’s question stretches, long and dry until Fiddleford punctures it with a pointed cough.

Ford tries to wrangle the interruption right to the ground distractedly, to keep the irritated edge out of his tone at having his train of thought segmented. He usually fails. “What- were you talking to me?”

“Oh no, Stanford, I was askin’ this fine publication on quantum physics when it was born.”

“Don’t they usually have that information in the copyright page?” Ford didn’t miss a beat, barely thinking over the strange inquiry to a rather uninspiring book if he was going to be frank. 

It takes him all of a moment for the words to circle back, nudging the edge of his thoughts with a nagging sort of insistence to revaluate the ridiculous comment. “Wait, were you asking me?”

Fiddleford has a laugh that just toed the line between charming and grating, never quite picking a side even at the best of times. (Ford finds it kind of comforting, honestly, and he was never sure why.) Ford pushes his chair back enough to get an actual look at his roommate, in time for Fiddleford to flash him a grin. “Maybe you should have that kind of information on ya, just written right there on your forehead so people can look it up when they fancy it.”

Ford looks thoughtful for all of a moment, a blatantly honest consideration that tugged further at Fiddleford’s mirth. “Flashcards would be easier.”

“Remind me not t’give you more ideas on how you can avoid conversation. Now-” Fiddleford sits up, triumphant in capturing most of Ford’s attention for the moment at least, “When’s your birthday? We’ve been roomin’ nearly a year together now and you got me something for mine, can’t go on letting you weasel out of a gift or two.”

So Fiddleford is sort of used to Stanford's moods now, and the sudden storm cloud that engulfs Ford's features isn't a shock so much as an unpleasant surprise. It's the kind of look that leaves an bad taste in your mouth, a little like Ford's heart sewed plainly to his sleeve without his knowing. A little like, well, eavesdropping, snooping.

"You don't have to." Ford's blunt, back to his work with a pointed, heckling sort of dismissal that felt like a jab. Maybe even Ford realizes as much, the biting sting of it all, because he lowers his pen and mutters, "I don't really celebrate it anymore."

"Well, that's a shame." Fiddleford figures he was in the middle of a minefield, explosives littering the floor like _so what's the deal with that anyway?_ or _I want to._

Fiddleford takes all of a minute to ponder, then, "Alrighty then, I'll just have t'get you a gift for something else. Heard Memorial Day's real festive."

Ford looks at him, really looks at him, expression warring with whether or not he should somehow be offended by this suggestion, like Fiddleford was looking down at him, teasing him, pitying him. Whatever it is he finds settles into a confused thoughtfulness, his earlier sour bite slinking into something sheepish, the barest hint of apologetic.

"I think I'm starting to regret celebrating your continued existence with cake and gifts."

Fiddleford shrugs. "I'm southern, Stanford. Y'got me a gift and I am morally obligated to return the favor with a Memorial Day pie."

And Ford smiles, very clearly despite himself. "I guess I can suffer through that."

 

——

 

So there's Stan, dragging his feet down and around a street corner, the nip in the air forcing his hands deep into his pockets. The jacket's new, at least, and it's just warm enough to keep the shuddering of his cold-brittle bones to a minimum. When he huffs into the high collar of said jacket plumes of steam escape unbidden, and yeah, it was all a nostalgic scene, like every little thing he pretends to forget in the day to day.

He hasn’t been back to Jersey in years but this bite is just like the shore, bracing and bitter but tame thanks to the ocean breeze of the coast. There are no ocean breezes here (yeah, like he was going to the ocean anytime soon? Why not gut him, just tear out his insides and feed it to something with more worth than a _bum_ like him—) but the winter is still the same as it was way back in his head, in another time.

So right, okay, there's Stan at 22-turning-23 in about three hours, smack in the middle of a birthday he pretends not to think too much about and he's feeling _wistful_ , like fleeting memories and the smell of salt. His fingers are sluggish in his coat pockets, sort of like

 _I_ told _you to bring gloves, Stanley, you can’t out-tough frostbite, you know_

and little things like that. 

He has enough money in his jean pocket to buy gloves, or a hat, or maybe two warm, cheap meals before he's running dry again. It's his birthday, for fuck’s sake, so he thinks why not one hard drink? Why not something he _wants_ rather than needs, damn the consequences, because who else was gonna celebrate the fact he's still kicking despite all the odds?

It's his birthday, it's his damn _birthday_ and that still meant something. Maybe he's wistful, so what, and he heads into this little corner shop full of over-the-counter prescriptions and candy and a whole wall full of cheesy cards with their brightly colored envelopes. So he looks them over, eyes crinkling at some of the bad jokes, narrowing at some of the heartfelt, placating bullshit, closing over the bitter well in his chest.

So there was this one time when Stanford, still a kid and too damned _talented_ and _driven_ even then, made Stan a card for their birthday. He drew a picture of John Wayne on the front, a damn good one really, the sort that had a sometimes clumsy, careless kid like Stan holding it out carefully so it wouldn’t bend or crinkle.

See, back then Ford didn’t draw people much, he didn’t like it much, he drew weird things and aliens with big, bulbous heads and trees? Yeah, Stan didn’t really get the tree thing, but that’s what he drew. Stan drew people, cartoonish and silly and nothing like Ford’s precision but his brother always said they looked great anyway. So right, okay, the thing was Ford didn’t draw people so that meant he had to practice, because that’s what Ford did. Ford didn’t go into anything half-assed so that damn great picture of John Wayne wishing Stan a good birthday was more than just a few lines on paper to him.

So maybe Stan was touched then, because their father called westerns a waste of time and their mother mostly told them to keep the tv down when she was hollering at customers for a few bucks an hour. Maybe it was one of the best gifts he ever got, just a picture on some nice, thick paper Ford totally filched from their school.

From behind the counter a middle aged man clears his throat, and even with his back turned Stan can tell the man is eyeing him. Huh, well here he thought his relatively new coat made him look a little less like a hobo and maybe, hell he doesn’t know, dashingly rugged or something? It's a nice sort of lie, kinda a daydream around the edges, but reality was an obnoxious clerk thinking he was mulling about just to have a warm place for a few more minutes.

Stan’s hackles rise and he pulls out a card, pointedly, grimly determined for no other reason than damaged, stubborn pride.

The card says ‘ _Best Wishes on your Birthday_ ’ and has a forest sprawling behind the words. It’s not very funny, not at all, really, but Stan kind of likes it anyway. 

He turns it over in his hands and thinks of Ford, probably off making something of himself like Stan never could, probably enjoying the company of their- no, Ford’s family, not Stan’s anymore, right? 

He thinks of Ford accepting congratulations from their parents, eating cake with two layers of Ford's favorite flavor, falling asleep in a nice, warm bed without a single thought of Stanley in his head. He thinks about Ford at wherever he was now, probably some nice house full of nice, nerd things, going out for a meal, celebrating with whoever it was that he was a year older. He thinks about Ford working through their birthday, falling asleep at his desk like he always used to do and startling awake just before midnight, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and toasting his birth with a can of soda from the fridge in a few bitter swallows.

Stan's thoughts are a daydream just around the edges, of knocking on the door, of Ford's tired expression morphing into surprise when he sees who's there. Maybe they'd argue, maybe they'd fight but they'd be together on the day they were born, Ford would listen, hear him, _forgive_ him for some stupid shit that happened so long ago he sometimes wakes up and hopes it was all a bad dream.

No one ever accused him of being smart and they certainly wouldn't now, not when he's slapping half of all the money he has in the world down to buy a shitty card he only kind of likes anyway. The bag stings in his hand like a bad decision, haunting his steps and the rumble in his core that tells him yeah, jackass, some food would be nice.

He keeps the card tucked up against the roof of his car, snug with an old photo of days long since past. Every once and a while he glances it over, ran his finger around the corner.

Next year, he tells himself, again and again until he receives a postcard of his own.

 

——

 

The thing is Stan remembers why that month in particular is important.

Saying as much isn't as rare nowadays, no longer followed by a burst of irrational pride and a chorus of relieved looks as his memory fell block by block into place. Maybe yeah, in a small way he misses it, the light in his family's eyes when some part of him slotted back into its proper place. He doesn't miss the tense shoulders, the bagged eyes, the haunted ring to tones like he was a walking stab in the gut. He thinks, remembers really, that maybe he's a bit selfish but fuck, he isn't that selfish. Not with them, the people that mattered most.

He remembers on Dipper and Mabel's birthday, somewhere smack in the middle of wondering something like _ain't it god damned weird their folks didn't tell 'em to come back before their birthday?_ and something else more _that lady with the eye thing is freaking me out._ He's buzzing because Ford asked him to stay with him, to _help_ him, to sail the seas and yeah, Stan remembers that dream deep in his marrow somewhere.

Right then, right there, he's struck with a feeling of cold, like the smell of old radiators chugging away in the winter, of the neon sign for their mother's hotline zapping this and that against the window. He remembers mid month, yeah, sitting at the table with Ford at his side, their mother baking them a cake with one layer Stan's favorite and one layer Ford's. Every year they butted their shoulders against each other, waiting for the last beat of their mother singing them a happy birthday to try and blow the candles out first.

Stan _always_ won, even when Ford insisted there was no real way to tell. They'd argue and laugh over it until their father barked at them to keep it down and they stuffed cake in their mouths to smother the laughter still forming in their throats.

He's learned as he went along that memories have a grip, kind of tight like hands grasping at him, clawing up his arm and demanding attention like an insistent knock or Soos's knowing stares. This one is no different, it's a punch to the gut that lingers in a pleasant ache, settles on his skin like a bruise and sinks in deep, taking up residence in his scrambled head as a fact colored by memory.

It's easy to throw a glance at Ford, who was leaning by Mabel and enthusiastically explaining something to her with as much energy as he could muster after the cluster fuck that was almost a week ago. The grip of the memory is painful, a bitter twist to chase down the sweet, the resounding, empty echo of knowledge that they hadn't celebrated their birthday together in forty years, that they'd never hear from Ma or Shermie again, that the last time Stanford got a gift on the day he was born may as well have been thirty years ago or more. 

That the winter chill reminds Stan more of blue light and _Stanley do something Stanley_ and cotton in his mouth rather than cake and another year done.

He watches Ford laugh at Mabel's answered enthusiasm and Stan, he lets the grip on his throat loosen and promises himself it'll be different now.

 

——

 

So two weeks after he lost his brother Stan turns 29.

He doesn't realize at first, not as he trudges through the house, not as he tinkers with an unfathomable machine, not as he slams his hand on the elevator door and lets the excess vitriol pour out of his lips like _damnit damnit damnitdamnitdamnit stupid, you fucking moron you have to make this work, fuck fuck fuck._ The elevator never answers his helpless frustration, not then or before or after, but it still bears the small dent that bruised his knuckles.

He doesn't realize when he slumps into his (Ford's) room, collapsing on his (Ford's) couch and why didn't the room have a proper bed anyway? Even the pillows weren't proper really, not enough to smother the screams he wants to just empty into the fabric rather than let them gather in his throat. A lot of the house is like that though, that absolutely baffling side of weird that's so Ford through and through that it _aches_ , it stings like a physical wound against his skin.

He doesn't realize until he curls on his side, swallowing down all the aches and catching sight of the calendar hanging on the wall.

 _Oh_ , that's what he thinks, _guess I'm 29 now._

The realization was more a whimper than a bang, shocking a stillness into the air, cultivating a heavy sort of silence that only broke when a wheezing laugh hiccups up his throat. Yeah, so he laughs, and if it was a pathetic, damp sound there was no one there to say so. His entire face is burning and he wants to scream but laughs shakily instead, wants to tear himself up inside because it wasn't supposed to be like this, _it wasn't supposed to be like this_ , oh god, how could he let it happen how--

So on his 29th birthday Stan muffles his laughter into a pillow that comes back wet when he pulls it away. So he takes one look at Ford's impressive collection of alcohol right there in his fucking room and thinks _why not?_

So yeah, he doesn't remember much about when he turned 29.

 

——

 

So two weeks after falling through the portal Ford turns 29. 

The mantra in his head is all _survive survive survive,_ sometimes muttered under his breath as he moves and keeps moving and _keeps moving oh god_ because the repetition in his ears is grounding. It's enough to drown out the peripherals, things that crawl and slide and _burn_ in the horizon like promises, like the sky opening up like a gaping maw, like the ground shuddering like goosebumps and living, like this cackle he swears he can hear all _let's finally meet_

_F A C E to F A C E !_

So on his 29th birthday he doesn't think about Stanley, or himself really, or much of anything at all besides _survive survive survive_ and that raw, hungry hatred that feels a lot like tearing Bill apart. So for the first time in years there's not even a twinge of uneasiness when he notes the date, only moving and stumbling and moving again.

So yeah, he doesn't remember much about when he turned 29.

 

——

Ford only mentions anything related to their birthday once, actually.

It goes like this: they're out on the boat, fishing because Stan insists and Ford won't shut up about 'sustainability' anyway, so why not start with something he likes? Ford isn't as enthusiastic about the fishing, mostly because he keeps getting distracted by 'bizarre reading this' and 'possible anomaly' that, but Stan wasn't really expecting any better.

The thing is even when he's distracted he's still distracted by Stan's side, muttering to himself, maybe even throwing a question to Stan and really, honestly? That's enough for Stan. 

Right, so they're fishing and Ford's distracted and Stan's rolling his eyes and saying, "For god's sake, Stanford, try to pay attention. Y'aren't old enough to be senile yet."

Usually Stanford rolls his eyes or digs into Stanley right back, old and nostalgic and familiar. Instead though, here he pauses, glances at Stan like he's hesitant to unleash whatever thought's in his head. 

When he does Stan can kind of see why. "Stanley... do you remember how old we are?"

Stan wishes he wasn't used to questions like that now but he is, and he sighs, low and easy. "Yeah, I remember." He was damn glad when he did, glad when he called out for such simple information in his own head he wasn't just answered with a confused echo, a gaping hole that didn't seem to end. 

Ford's lips are quirked in relief, an honest pleasure at that answer and Stan huffs out the tension that was building in his shoulders grimly. "Even if sometimes I wish I didn't. We're getting damn old, Stanford."

"We have plenty of years to come." Ford was always firm about that and he is now too, brow furrowing with just a slight dip, like he just can't help himself. Stan wants to ask a lot of things, like a smarmy yeah, how do you know that? or a far more sincere we better, we've missed enough birthdays.

'Course he never gets a chance, what with the damned _siren_ incident that followed right after but yeah, maybe he thinks about missed birthdays sometimes still.

 

——

 

So Soos has this thing where he's always asking Stan when his birthday is. Given the kid's discomfort with his own birthday it's actually kinda sweet, not that Stan would say as much even under pain of death.

It started when they were both a lot younger (well Soos was, Stan firmly refuses to admit he wasn't born a crotchety old man because then people expect him to be 'reasonable' and 'open-minded,' feh) and Soos innocently asked. When Stan brushed the question aside as gruffly as possible it didn't stop Soos from picking a random day of the year and giving him a cupcake, or a card that says 'Happy ______!' with the birthday bit scratched out. 

When Wendy came into the picture it just got worse, because the two made a game out of it.

"He's a scorpio, man."

"No way dude! Mr. Pines has the sensitive heart of a pisces."

Wendy taps her boots on the side of the register, feet kicked back and casually resting on the counter because why would any of his employees listen to him when he tells them to stop doing things. "Okay, what about taurus? Stubborn, probably money grubbing-"

"With great perseverance and strength of will," Soos finishes for her sagely. "Huh, taurus is pretty good."

"I can hear you!" Stan considers throwing something at his open office door. He considers it deeply. "I can hear you and I am still not above firing you both!"

"I'm going to read your horoscope, Mr. Pines!" Wendy calls back without missing a beat, and Stan decides she will definitely be the first to go. "Woah, looks like you're going to meet someone, good going! Get back in that game."

Soos actually _claps_ at this news, and Stan groans into his hands.

So that year when Soos leaves him a box of Hostess snacks with a bow Wendy helps too, places a card on top, one that says 'Happy 90th!' in big, floral print. He refuses to acknowledge the card and eats the cupcakes with as much indignation as he can muster.

(So he keeps the stupid card, along with all the other cards Soos gave him over the years, and swears to take that knowledge to his damn grave.)

 

——

 

So it's years and years before Ford sees snow again, at least snow that's anything like what he was used to.

He just finished ripping down a few wanted posters, water stained and thickly yellow with age. Even if his face was uncovered this city moves differently, slowly, an outskirt, and he honestly thinks he may be able to take a few weeks to rest here without glancing over his shoulder at every turn. He knows to be careful, he _knows_ , but hell, if there isn't something so tempting about kicking his feet up for a few days, just a few. He could be vigilant in his rest and he _likes_ this place, it's a little like-

So maybe he doesn't remember 'home' well, or even what home means. Is it New Jersey, the shore and the boat and neon signs buzzing in the window? Is it Gravity Falls, endless trees and quirks and possibilities? Maybe it feels like home's supposed to be a mix of both, or just the entire dimension he left behind, he's not really sure. He knows eventually he'll adapt to the point where it doesn't matter, because he knows can't go back. That's the simple fact of the matter, like a final nail hammered into the coffin.

When the snow starts he's heading down an alley, still cautious in his exploration despite the lull, the sense of security. He glances up and there are big, puffy bits of blue in the air, a strange shade and several strange, almost oblong shapes but the bite in the air in is the same, the thick silence following a snowfall is too.

He stares for a few beats, and then his hand goes for an inner pocket of his coat, thumb running along the edge of the photo there. He doesn't pull it out but for the first time in months Stanley's there, on his mind, not a fleeting thought or a mantra of how Stan has hidden the journal, Stan would do that for him, Stan did. 

There's a comfortable enough curb ahead and he sits on it, hunching over to protect the picture he pulls out from the elements. The boys in the picture stare back and a lump forms in his throat, surprising him with its intensity. Time was strange on the other side of the portal, in this string of worlds, and he finds himself wondering for the first real time since he fell through just how many birthdays have come and passed.

The thought's almost overwhelming, different than simply counting down the months days _years_ here. Funnily enough it's easier to wonder about Stan, things like what Stan was doing if it was their birthday, if Stan bothered to celebrate it or left it by the wayside like Ford did. In college, in Gravity Falls, he always ignored the day with some stubborn insistence that he could overcome the sinking feeling that made residence in his gut whenever it got cold enough for snow. He pretended not to think about Stanley even when he did think about him, even when he hated himself for doing so.

Now he must be feeling morbid or nostalgic, because he thinks about Stanley back at home, maybe trying to bake himself a cake, maybe having someone in his life who bakes it for him. Maybe Stanley made a grave for Stanford after he was lost, maybe he visits it every year when it gets cold, maybe whatever ache Stanley felt is starting to melt into something softer, less painful, just _less._

(Maybe Stanley never looked back, a shrill voice too much like Bill's mutters somewhere in his skull, maybe he washed his hands of everything, maybe he forgot, maybe he gave up caring with that push-)

So Ford gets up, shakes the memories from where they're trying to sink into his skin and moves. He thinks for all of a moment about splurging like some sort of gift, bartering for something sweet around these parts or paying for a room with a decent bed.

(So he doesn't in the end, because today was like any other day, even if his fingers can't help tracing the photo again and again.)

 

——

 

Stan's smug with how good his decision to return to Gravity Falls for the winter was, enough that all he needs to do is look at Ford a certain way to get his brother's eyes rolling with a, "Yes, Stanley, you were right." 

He never gets tired of hearing that.

The kids come and go, everyone in town sees him at some point or another and Stan's got this damn feeling in his bones that's a little too close to _holiday cheer_ and _warmth_ for his liking. He does his absolute best to make sure no one realizes as much, even if Wendy and Soos keep giving him knowing looks. Wendy even _winked_ at him when he forgot himself and smiled as he quietly watched the whole lot of Shack eating dinner together. The withering glare he gave her in return just made her grin all the more.

The truth is, he thinks, this may have been what he always wanted. Maybe his memory's still a bit cooky but he remembers enough, remembers chasing after a family he was thrown out of only to stumble into another without realizing. It's so painfully sappy it makes him gag, but maybe, just maybe, he sleeps better than he can remember in damn years. Maybe it's all clicked into place.

It snows when he turns 60, when _they_ turn 60, and he watches it from the kitchen window. He doesn't get a cake, doesn't bother doing more than brewing a strong pot of coffee but he has a bag at the edge of the table, one Ford notices with a raised brow as he walks into the kitchen.

Really, Stan knows he could have done a lot more, really given Ford a shock, dragged him through remembering on his own but instead he simply says, "Happy birthday."

The look on Ford's face is hilarious, that teenager trapped in a bitter old man bursting through again. His eyes widen then narrow, calculating until his entire face crumples to embarrassment, fidgeting. Stan just grins at him, smug, and it's enough to ease Ford into taking a seat across from him.

"I... may have forgotten." Ford could sound like he'd rather be pulling out his own teeth sometimes, and Stan graces him with skeptical, biting sarcasm.

"Y'think?"

Ford rolls his eyes, tapping his fingers against the mug in his hands, perpetual movement. "It's been a long time since I've celebrated it," he admits. "Or even noticed it, really."

"Thirty years?" Stan guesses, a twinge in his chest.

And Ford shakes his head. "Longer."

"Yeah, me too."

It probably should be more bitter than it is. Instead it's like scar tissue, an itch but no pain, too old to notice without the change of the weather.

Stan pushes the bag towards Ford. "Well, go on."

Ford stares at it a moment, fingers hesitantly reaching to pull it closer. "I didn't get you anything."

His admittance just makes Stan laugh. "Duh, pointdexter, unless you keep presents around just in case you miss something we already talked about the whole forgetting thing." Ford's brow furrows in that way that tells him Ford might start doing just that, and Stan exhales with as much exasperation as he can muster. "You'll owe me, just open it."

The brown paper of the bag (what, like Stan was going to waste money on wrapping paper? Did it look like he shit diamonds or something?) tears easily to reveal a red cover, and Ford's hands stutter over it, hesitant as he opens to the first page.

"Stanley..." His voice is thick, and Stan can't look at him for some reason, staring out at the snow instead.

"I made a copy of your dumb journal ages ago, back when Dipper was being a royal pain in my neck. It's only the third one, but I thought hell, why not, right?" He forgot about the copy, he forgot about a lot of things, of course, and boy it took him a while to understand what the binder of papers stuffed under his desk was. "I know you were real blue about losing it to that asshole triangle, so I got it bound. No gold hands though, you can do that your damn self."

So the thing is a lot of his head is still white noise and static, and he doesn't really remember enough to have a baseline for Ford's reaction here. He doesn't remember the gifts he gave in the past, if they even gave gift often, if Ford was the type for quiet gratitude or loud exuberance. He isn't sure it'd help either, they're different people than two Jersey kids running along the shore, threaded together by a bit of blood and a lot of nostalgia. New traditions, and all that.

He's nervous, okay, but he looks up anyway, and Ford's smiling at him in a way that makes him look decades younger. So, Stan figures, he probably did a good job.

"Like it?" He eggs on, and Ford runs his hand over the cover.

"You've managed to preserve years of work _and_ spit on Bill's grave." Ford's (rather morbid) delight is almost palpable. "Stanley, it's easily the best gift I've ever gotten. Thank you."

Ford makes a gift out of pancakes and watching an entire movie with Stan without pointing out the damn inaccuracies. It's not a bad gift, especially for the frustrated looks on Ford's face when Stan picks a really bad sci-fi and spends more time laughing at Ford's helpless sounds of rage rather than the movie itself.

Eventually, when no one makes any passing congratulations to Stan, Ford asks, "They don't know what today is?"

And Stan smirks, leaning back in his old, creaky chair as Ford watches him curiously. "Nah, let 'em keep scrambling to figure it out. More fun that way."

Just like they were kids Ford, he stares for that one beat before the corner of his lips quirk in understanding, like an old, nostalgic joke.

(So they keep it to themselves, and really, Stan's only ever wanted to share it with one person anyway.)

**Author's Note:**

> as always thanks to cake for betaing shit and making it intelligible


End file.
